


These Other...Games

by maryling



Category: Chess - Rice/Ulvaeus/Andersson
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 16:46:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/599940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maryling/pseuds/maryling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All he had to do was escort Anatoly around Merano for a week or two.  Surely he could manage that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Other...Games

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dreamsofstars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamsofstars/gifts).



> A bit of a character study of Molokov. Rating is for language. Based on the 2008 Royal Albert Hall version (where David Bedella steals the show, IMO)

The first time Molokov was introduced to his charge Anatoly barely looked at him, his right hand twitching in a manner that Molokov later learned indicates he's replaying a match in his head. He nearly walked out right then, the thought of babysitting a pampered, coddled man-child who played a board game for a living almost intolerable. Only his future ambitions kept him from protesting his assignment. Every agent there knew that the World Chess Championship was a trial run for the upcoming Olympics. The opportunity to handle such a large event and work with athletes was a highly coveted one at any time, doubly so when the venue was to be the United States. It was easy to imagine that a member or two of the USSR retinue could be left behind in America as sleeper agents.

And all he had to do was escort Anatoly around Merano for a week or two. Surely he could manage that.

* * *

Fucking Americans. How could one man bring the tournament to a halt? Capitalism, of course. Greed. The overarching desire for money. Certainly, communism was far from perfect, but nothing like this would ever happen at home, he told himself. He almost believed it, too. Contrary to Anatoly's accusations, this was more than just a job to him. He loved Russia, even as he acknowledged its flaws, and truly wanted to improve it as well as protect it from the corrupt influences of the West, through any means necessary.

At least Anatoly seemed to have taken his advice about the American's woman. One of his underlings just delivered word that the two were cozying up together on a mountain somewhere. Perhaps this delay would be beneficial after all, as it appears to have given them the chance to sabotage the American.

And speaking of Americans - "Mr. Molokov! Fancy meeting you here! Although I fear we may be spending more time in establishments like this one in the near future if our players can't come to an agreement." De Courcey strode over and clapped a large hand on Molokov's shoulder, unerringly finding the strap of Molokov's concealed holster. If he hadn't already known de Courcey was an agent, that alone would have sealed it. Molokov would bet his career that this meeting was no accident, that he was being watched the same way he had eyes on several members of the American contingent.

"Ah, Mr. de Courcey. A pleasure. Though as you say, it's a shame we're here instead of overseeing a match. Is Mr. Trumper almost ready to resume playing?" he asked blandly. If de Courcey was good - and he must have been, or he wouldn't be the lead American agent in Merano - he wouldn't give up any information, but there's no harm in asking.

De Courcey settled down and ordered a beer before answering. (American swill, of course. Molokov himself was enjoying a glass of the red wine for which the area was famous.) "This happens more often than you'd think," de Courcey said, tipping his bottle in a salute to Molokov. "All these high level players are a little crazy. At least Freddie's only asking for money. I've had fellas protesting about the cameras, arguing about the scoring format. Hell, I heard one year there was a fight over yogurt, if you can believe that."

Molokov raised an eyebrow. "Truly, yogurt? You Americans do enjoy your stories, I see."

"It was before my time," de Courcey conceded, "but I heard it from a source I consider extremely reliable. And speaking of reliable sources," he continued, dropping his voice so that Molokov needed to lean closer, "I hear that our boys should be back to work very soon." Draining his bottle in one long swallow, de Courcey stood abruptly, forcing Molokov backwards, nearly off-balance. "Get some sleep, Alexander. We've got a big day tomorrow!"

* * *

Somehow he wasn't blamed for Anatoly's defection. Not entirely. The worst consequences fell on the men who were supposed to be on surveillance duty when de Courcey's group spirited Anatoly away. He's merely demoted for several months, relegated to transcribing wire taps and other recordings, the most mind-numbing work he's had to do in years. 

Surprisingly enough, he did work the Olympics. Through a stroke of luck, Zinoviev fell ill in early February and Molokov was the only one with enough experience who could be reassigned at such short notice. He was designated as the overseer of the biathlon squad, which earned four medals including two golds. It was more than enough to get him back into the agency's good graces.

And he thanked God daily that he hadn't been filling in with the hockey team. Rumor had it that most of their handlers had been sent down to the war in Afghanistan. Certainly no one had seen them since the team's disgraceful return to Moscow.

A month after the Games, he was on a plane to Bangkok with orders to ruin Anatoly.

* * *

Despite his careful plans, Molokov was worried. He'd given a rousing speech to the rest of the delegation in an attempt to cover his nerves, but also because he couldn't let the others know about his doubts. Any one of his men would cheerfully stab him in the back and take over if they knew how uncertain he was.

As little as he knew about chess, he knew that Viigand couldn't hold a candle to Anatoly's skill. Therefore they'd either have to rattle Anatoly enough to throw him off his game, or give him sufficient reason to lose. Bringing in Svetlana should do for the former, and subtle hints about freeing captives would interest de Courcey and the Hungarian woman, setting up the latter.

De Courcey. An American bastard, sure, but a likeable one. And surprisingly easy to manipulate with his tale about the captives. Molokov had been able to get papers made up featuring the names of a few people mentioned in the tapes he'd transcribed, which resulted in de Courcey falling all over himself to assist Molokov. Walter had even been the one to suggest the interview on Global Television. He'd assured Molokov that he'd feed Freddie questions that would shake even the calmest of men.

The forged papers also contained some random Hungarian surnames, and he'd included a Vassy on it in order to tempt Florence. If Anatoly couldn't be distracted, surely he would throw the match for the woman for whom he'd abandoned family and country. Surely he wouldn't risk alienating her by throwing away what looked like a chance to find her father.

The plans would work. They had to.

* * *

The arbiter had ended the previous day's session early after four consecutive draws. Even Molokov could see that the fight had drained out of Anatoly's game. His subordinates had reported that Anatoly wasn't playing at a level anywhere near his potential, only enough to prevent it from being obvious that he wasn't trying to win. It was only a matter of time, perhaps even as soon as this morning, before Viigand blustered his way to the decisive sixth victory.

And then it happened. Partway through the first match of the day, he saw Anatoly set his shoulders, his eyes harden. He moved his pieces resolutely as all traces of the indifference of the last few days melted away. Viigand's moves slowed, became uncertain as he went from a tentative offense to a desperate defense. Molokov didn't need to hear Trumper's commentary to know that the match had shifted. That Anatoly had awoken. That the championship would be his again.

Molokov took advantage of the confusion following the announcement of the victor to slip out through a side exit. His emergency bag was waiting for him at a motel in the seediest part of the city, cash and a new identity ready to help him disappear amongst a city of over four million people. As much as he loved his country, he wasn't ready to die for it. He'd make a new life for himself somewhere away from spying, away from the games and intrigue. If Anatoly could manage it, so could he. Perhaps Australia. Or West Berlin. As much as he hated capitalism, he had to get away from his fellow agents so the West it was. 

And if he never saw another chessboard again, so much the better.


End file.
